


Untouchable

by Idrelle_Miocovani



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age II
Genre: Drama, F/M, Fluff and Angst, Post-Kirkwall, Romance, some angst but generally there is happiness all around, surviving one's grief
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-03
Updated: 2019-08-03
Packaged: 2020-07-30 13:41:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,568
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20098111
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Idrelle_Miocovani/pseuds/Idrelle_Miocovani
Summary: Manon Hawke retreated from Kirkwall, leaving behind a life haunted with painful memories. Reconciled with Fenris, she finds herself in Tevinter, on the edge of northern Thedas, where they can finally find the peace they have needed for so long.





	Untouchable

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Louminx](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Louminx/gifts).

> Written as a surprise gift for the every-wonderful [@louminx](https://louminx.tumblr.com/). Inspired by [this sketch](https://louminx.tumblr.com/post/186729839771/found-this-sketch-in-an-old-art-folder-and-my) she did of Fenris and Manon Hawke.
> 
> Manon Hawke belongs to louminx. 
> 
> Dear Lou, I hope this sparks a little joy. I scrolled through Manon's tag on tumblr all morning for references, and I hope I did her justice. <3

It was late afternoon when he asked about the scar. 

Dappled sunlight flooded across the floor, shining through translucent red curtains that rippled in the light breeze. Voices rose up from the bustling thoroughfare below, an indistinct cacophony of languages and accents, as if all of Thedas had been thrown into street. The inn was near the harbour—near enough to account for their foreign presence, but far enough to avoid the crime that ran rampant along the waterfront. Fenris struck a memorable chord (they both did, if Manon was being honest), and an elf renting luxury suites in Tevinter was enough to raise some eyebrows. Thankfully the innkeeper didn’t ask too many questions, provided Manon kept her payments timely, with a handsome bonus to boot. From the muttered gossip she overheard while climbing the stairs, she knew the inn’s staff assumed them to be a rich southern lady and her elven paramour, seeking asylum from political or familial strife in the far north. 

They weren’t right, but they weren’t completely wrong, either. Though she did want to snap back at them whenever they referred to Fenris as her manservant. 

(She settled for sending a tiny wisp of magic to shock the offending porter the third time she overheard his gossip.) 

All in all, Qarinus—or _Ventus,_ as it was properly called (Fenris reminded her, and she fled behind the argument that all her maps in the Hawke Estate were old and inaccurately marked)—was fair to them. A tiny, unexpected sliver of quiet that made the chaos of what happened in Kirkwall feel almost like a dream. Another world. Another reality. 

Almost. 

Manon had nights where she woke in a cold sweat, memories of the worst moments of her life captured in nightmares. 

Bethany, Leandra, Anders. 

_Anders._

Maker, how she tried not to think of him. Their brief spell of happiness, drowned by the flood of magic and chaos and hate and grief and stubborn, useless _justice._

No matter how far she forced them down, no matter how many times she locked them away in that private part of her mind where they could never be touched, she was at their mercy when she slept. She would bolt awake, sitting upright in bed, the sheets a messy, clammy tangle around her waist, goosebumps prickling her arms, panic rising in her heaving chest. Fenris would gently brush her long hair over her shoulder, put his arms around her and hold her close. She would lean into him, head resting against his chest, listening to the familiar beat of his heart, feeling the warmth of his skin. He never said a word, but nothing needed to be said. 

It was enough to hold her. 

She was not alone. Fenris had his nightmares, too, and he sought the comfort of her touch as much as she sought his. Though Danarius was long dead, he bore scars that would never fully heal. Their lives together were so much more than companionship—they pulled each other out of the flood marks, weathered their storms together. There were times when Manon wondered how they had managed without each other. 

They had come to Tevinter because it was the last place anyone would think to look for them. Fenris’ intention had been to hunt slavers, but while the funds from Manon’s estate lasted, they tucked themselves away. Now and again they ventured out, putting their skills to work—the streets of Ventus benefited greatly from their protection, and with no templars to worry about, Manon had free range of her skills. 

It was a good arrangement. 

“I’m curious,” Fenris said, lounging on a prim velvet chair near the window. He was shirtless, the tropical heat bringing a slight flush to his skin. One leg was drawn up, a bare foot resting against his knee. “The scar on your nose. You’ve never said how you got it.” 

Manon sat not too far away at a small writing desk, dressed in a sleeveless robe of deep red silk, the skirt tangling around her knees. She stretched her hands above her head, gazing at the desk. The gleaming oak surface was covered with letters, missives she was writing to her friends. She was gone from Kirkwall, yes, but she wasn’t ready to disappear entirely. Though if what Varric said about Cassandra Pentaghast was true, how the Left Hand of the Divine believed she, _Hawke,_ Champion of Kirkwall, was the solution to the rising tensions between templars and mages… Maybe she would have to fade from the known world entirely. 

“I haven’t, no,” Manon replied, a small smile tugging at her lips. Her fingers brushed her nose, dancing across the silver line of scarred tissue that had been with her for more years that she liked to count. 

“Care to indulge me?” Fenris asked, leaning back in his chair. He tilted his head back, eyes closed, basking in the gentle tropical breeze that blew through the open balcony doors. 

Manon dipped her quill into the inkpot. “Varric knows. He was there when it happened. You can always ask him.” She put pen to paper and scrawled a few last lines in her letter to Merrill. She had run out of black ink, leaving her with the red used for formalities. Vibrant crimson letters blossomed across the page—appropriate for a blood mage, she thought with a chuckle. 

“Varric will give me one answer one day, and another one another day.” 

“And if I tell you,” Manon said, “how will you know I haven’t taken a page from Varric’s book and done the same?” She signed her named and blew a puff of air over the wet ink. 

Fenris laughed. “I would hope you’d show some honesty.” 

“I’m always honest,” Manon replied. She folded the letter and poured wax onto the edge. She pressed the Amell signet ring into it, sealing it. “But a lady needs to keep some secrets. After all, sometimes mystery is more interesting than the truth.” 

He opened his eyes, shaking his head, laugh lines crinkling around his eyes and mouth. “If you insist. But I will hear the story eventually.” 

“It’s not all that interesting.” Manon paused, fingers tapping across the desk, and turned in her seat. “Or maybe it’s the most interesting story in the world.” 

“That’s what I’m afraid of.” 

“One of intrigue and danger and a thousand troublesome matters.” She arched a dark brow. “I was mischievous in my youth.” 

“So, a childhood incident, then?” Fenris said. He uncrossed his legs, leaning forwards and rested his elbows on his knees, chin in his hands. He gazed across the room at her, green eyes glimmering. “As with any good mystery, you leave a clue in every word you speak.” 

“You jump to conclusions,” Manon countered. “There are more years to count than you think. My youth only ended a year ago.” 

The casual laughter faded from Fenris’ eyes. His lips drew inward, solemn, and he stood, crossing the room to put a hand on her shoulder. “Manon…” 

She covered his hand with hers but did not meet his gaze. She looked away, a long, hard ache beating deep in her chest. Her fingers tightened, gripping his hand, clutching the familiar weight. For years he had called her Hawke. Only Hawke. Always Hawke. Her surname fell from his lips as casually as the name of any other friend. 

But they weren’t only friends anymore. 

_Manon._

He rarely spoke her name, and when he did, it sounded new and unfamiliar. It brought a flutter of delight, a mark of intimacy that had been unattainable in Kirkwall, in the days when he knew nothing but confusion and she had no patience to spare. They had burned bright and hot for a month before it imploded, leaving them with nothing but bitter feelings and dashed hopes. They were older now. More certain. Less afraid—or, at least, less fearful of_ being_ afraid. 

How could so much be epitomized in something as small as speaking her name? 

Manon snaked a hand around the back of his neck and pulled him down. She kissed him firmly, the taste of the afternoon’s wine and fruit still fresh on his lips. Fenris pressed a hand to her cheek, lingering in the kiss. 

“Manon,” he said quietly, rubbing his thumb softly across her cheek. 

“I’m fine.” 

“Are you certain?” 

She smiled. “I’m with you.” 

He pressed his forehead to hers. “Yes.” 

The wind blew, disturbing the curtains by the door. They undulated, the red fabric shimmering gold in the late afternoon sun, softly brushing the gleaming wood floor. The sky beyond had gone golden, burnished orange and pink streaking across a blue canvas, heralding the evening. 

“Will we go tonight?” Fenris asked. 

“Yes,” she replied. “I think so. There is always someone who could use our help.” 

He nodded, drawing back. He brushed the scar on her nose with a finger. “Will you cover it?” 

Manon pursed her lips and crinkled her nose. For the entirety of her life in Kirkwall, she had covered the scar with a red smear, wearing it into battle the way Qunari wore vitaar. It had become her mark, something to recognize her by—the Champion of Kirkwall and the red stripe across her face. 

She stopped painting it when she and Fenris fled the city. She wasn’t sure why. In part, it was to hide her identity. But she knew that wasn’t the only reason. The smear was as much a part of Kirkwall as the city itself. In leaving Kirkwall, it only felt right to leave the smear behind as well. 

“I don’t know,” she said. “Do you think I should?” 

He chuckled. “With or without it, it is still your face. And I love it all the same.” 

Manon smiled mischievously and leaned across the desk, dipping a finger into the inkpot. She coated it with red ink and dashed it across her nose in one smooth, familiar stroke. 

“There,” she said. “Does that work?” 

He kissed her cheek. “Yes. I believe it does.” 

Manon stood, skirts tangling around her legs, one hand gripping his shoulder. His muscles were smooth and taut beneath her touch, and her eyes flickered over him, taking in his familiar form—broad shoulders, smooth chest, the white lines of the lyrium tattoos that twisted their way over his body. 

She kissed him, light and fierce, her breath hot and heady in her mouth. Fenris grunted, arms wrapping around her, palms pressed into her back. He walked her into the edge of the desk. Something thudded onto the oak surface, but she paid it no heed—she was lost in the kiss. Her hands pushed against the desk, steadying herself. 

She felt the slippery texture of the ink saturate her skin and when she raised a hand to brush a loose lock out of her eyes, her palm came away stained crimson. She glanced over her shoulder and saw the spilled inkpot, bleeding red across the oak surface. 

Fenris laughed. “Oops,” he said. 

Manon’s golden-brown eyes narrowed. “Oops?” 

“I know you’re known for your messes, Hawke, but—” 

“Oh, please,” she interrupted, jabbing him in the chest. She left a streak of red against his bronzed skin. “My messes are as much your messes now.” 

He backed away, an easy grin illuminating his face, hands raised. “I seem to recall a certain incident at Château Haine that was absolutely your mess.” 

“Memorable, that one,” Manon retorted. She grabbed his hand, squeezing hard, ink pressed between their palms. “‘Hawke stepped in the poopy.’ Not the most eloquent thing you’ve ever said. Bit of a disaster, really, when you think about it—” 

“Then it’s a good thing I’ve never prided myself on being eloquent,” Fenris replied. He stepped backwards, drawing her towards the bed. 

“You’re surprisingly decent at it,” Manon said. “When you want to be.” 

“Emphasis on _when,_ I take it?” 

“Naturally.” 

He smiled, his laugh barely contained. She pushed him, her palms to his shoulders, and he let himself fall back, landing softly on the bed. He sunk into the pillows, laughing. His casual mirth was the most intoxicating thing she had encountered all day, including the wine. 

Manon climbed onto the soft mattress, her silk skirts flowing around her as she straddled him. She brushed white hair from his forehead and kissed him. Fenris murmured against her lips, his hand cradling her neck. She pulled away, lips searing with heat and pressure from the kiss, and swiped her ink-stained fingers across his nose. Her fingers lingered on his cheek. 

“There,” she said. “Now we match.” 

Fenris laughed, his smile wide. His hand trailed down her collarbone, sliding under the strap of her robe, slipping it off her shoulder, the material clinging to his pinky finger. His palm left red ink on her shoulder. “Interesting,” he said. “I wondered what I would look like as a Hawke.” 

“Impossible,” Manon said, fingers trailing across his cheek. Her robe slipped further down, whispering against her skin. “There can only be one.” She kissed him. “But it suits you.” 

“If you’re done with it, perhaps it can be mine,” he said. 

His hands pressing into the small of her back, drawing her close. Her body pressed against his and she knew then that any plans for the night would be delayed. 

“Varric would have a fit,” she said. “He’d have to change the details in _The Tale of the Champion. _Halt publication, send a new draft to his editor, start the printing press all over again—” 

Fenris laughed. His fingers twined in Manon’s hair, twisting a lock round and round. “I still can’t believe he wrote it. Have the others drawn lots yet over who gets to murder him when all their secrets are released to the world?” 

“I’m told it’s mostly fabricated lies,” Manon said. “Mostly.” 

“Mostly.” 

She caught his hands, fingers entwining with his, and pushed them above his head. Her eyes found his, golden-brown to green, and the easy mirth fell into silence. They had many moments like this, where nothing needed to be said. The familiarity of long companionship, going back even to the days before they were lovers, said enough. There was laughter and chatter and joy between them now, but the silences were every bit as precious. 

Manon kissed him, lips warm against his, urgent and yearning. Fenris murmured her name as he clutched her tight. He rolled her onto her side, and she was lost in the comfort of their bed, sheets tangled around them. She brushed his hair from his forehead, seeking his eyes, eager to be lost in his gaze. He kissed her fervently, his body pushing against hers, and they were soon lost in the daze and heat and desire of each other’s touch. 

Afterward, as they lay in bed, warm skin to warm skin, Manon’s head resting on his chest, Fenris’ fingers trailing up and down her bare back, she thought how fortunate she was. How fortunate they both were. 

There was a time when anything beyond Kirkwall was inconceivable. 

She was grateful. For him, for this. That though the ghosts of their past would haunt them for the rest of their lives, at least they had found a little sliver of peace, carved out in the far reaches of the known world. 

Here, they could finally live. 

Here, they were untouchable. 


End file.
